


it's all a metaphor, you see

by Sianna_the_fanartist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Gen, Hopeful Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I did a lot of fiddling to make the word count 2019 dont @ me, Introspection, One Shot, Perfectionism, Stream of Consciousness, a little hoity-toity, projecting? whats that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sianna_the_fanartist/pseuds/Sianna_the_fanartist
Summary: A perfect world doesn’t exist, no more than a perfect human, angel, or demon does. No more than a perfect plant does.But, nevertheless, we all strive to be perfect. Even Crowley. Especially Crowley, although his definition of perfect may have changed over the centuries.In which the author blatantly projects onto the lovable disaster demon in a rambly mess of a fic written in one go from 9:30 pm to midnight.





	it's all a metaphor, you see

The thing with the seven deadly sins is that they only became sins in excess.

For some of them, it was obvious. One was only Gluttonous when one consumed far more than they needed— for an occult or celestial being, that was any food at all, which made it interesting how Aziraphale never received more than a judgmental look for how he enjoyed a good meal. 

One was only Greedy when any and all material goods were collected, curated, and never given back, even to those who needed it. Again, astonishing how Aziraphale was never reprimanded. But, Crowley supposed, Greed was usually associated with money, so it was harder to recognize when the hoarded objects were first-edition books and misprinted bibles.

One was only Wrathful when they spent most of their time up in arms about something—soccer moms demanding to see a manager, bigots counter-protesting in June, websites dedicated to hating a particular show or celebrity. Crowley had been rather proud of that one.

And speaking of, one was only Prideful when it bordered on narcissism. A little self-confidence was good for the soul, after all.

Some of the other ones were a little hazier. Sloth, for instance—depression often resulted in slothful behavior, and that was hardly the human’s fault. Lust, too, had gray areas. There was a definite resistance to what was nowadays called “slut-shaming.” Evidently, humans decided that lust was no longer a sin, unless the lust was acted out upon someone who did not return the sentiment. Seemed pretty reasonable to Crowley. 

And finally, Envy. It was a little hard to fathom what Envy could be an excess of. Perhaps there wasn’t a name for it, although an argument could be made that ambition was a drive based on the desire for what the people above had. In Crowley’s opinion, however, ambition could be driven by any of the sins. To Crowley, there was no such thing as a healthy amount of envy.

Which made the sting all the much worse when he felt the pangs of it around Aziraphale.

Envy was often paired with other sins. It could inspire Wrath, for instance, and especially Greed or Gluttony. Seldom was it seen with Pride, Sloth, or Lust. That didn’t stop Crowley from being the most Slothful, Envious demon around.

Perhaps the reason his Envy never made him angry was that he could never be truly angry at Aziraphale. Annoyed, yes, irritated, certainly, frustrated? _Absolutely._ But never truly angry. He loved Aziraphale. With all his heart, blackened as it was.

But all the same, he envied him. He was so jealous it hurt. And then, immediately after, he felt so guilty about it that he had to avoid the angel for a while before the welter of emotions calmed down inside of him.

He was jealous of a couple things, actually.

One, Aziraphale’s pure and unwavering faith. In anything, not just Heaven, and not Heaven at all these days. Faith in him, in humanity, in the fact that everything would turn out okay.

Two, how Aziraphale never needed to have a lie-down when everything and everyone got to be too much. The angel was absolutely a recluse, an introvert at heart. But he didn’t seem to experience the intense exhaustion Crowley felt when something _big_ happened. He didn’t feel the urge to bolt and sleep for a couple decades, or even just to lock himself away until things went back to normal. Crowley liked to act suave and hip and up-to-date with all the world’s happenings, but if he didn’t have the urge to perform and never, ever show weakness he’d probably be the same as his angel, still saying things like “tickety-boo.”

And that brings us to three: Aziraphale’s _himself-ness._ Although he had his own insecurities and foibles, he owned up to them, and was so willing to bare his soft underbelly and be vulnerable in front of Crowley that all his weaknesses hardly seemed weak at all. He wept unashamedly and smiled when he felt like it. Crowley, on the other hand, took a page out of Shakespeare’s book. The whole world a stage, and he a player, always excruciatingly aware of what his face was doing, what his body was doing, what he was saying. If he had to be vulnerable, he pretended as if he wasn’t bothered, laughing and quickly changing the subject.

And, finally, four:

Crowley was incredibly, bitterly, painfully Envious of Aziraphale because he had never Fallen. Infraction after infraction after infraction, “forget my own head next,” willingly performing temptations at the behest of a demon, gluttonous and greedy behavior, and never even a single off-white feather, let alone black. 

Crowley did not want Aziraphale to Fall. The very thought made him feel sick. But all the same, he ached for some semblance of fairness. All he had done was ask questions. He was perfectly good, otherwise. He’d earnestly strived for Her approval, being a model example of an angel, if a little mischievous. 

And then, when he’d Fallen, he’d tried his best to be good, or rather bad, for Lucifer and Hell. If he was no good at being an angel, he’d be the most wicked, reprehensible, clever demon there was. That plan had been shaping up quite nicely when he’d gotten Eve to take a bite of the Fruit, but Crowley, then Crawly, had quickly realized that he just wasn’t cut out to be wicked. Chaotic and mischievous at worst. The only part of his edited plan to be kept was the clever part, and that part went absolutely out the window when it came to Aziraphale. Around his angel, he was a blustering, stuttering idiot.

And so he went through history, fucking people over and kicking apple carts. Not bad enough to be a proper demon, not good enough to be an angel.

That phrase was the one that stuck with him the most, really. _Not good enough._

_Never good enough_.

It bit at his heels like consecrated ground bit the soles of his feet, like snakes bit unwary passers-by, like Eve bit the apple.

When he hung out with Aziraphale, it was so hard to ignore. Sometimes, he tried to calm that little voice by resigning himself to it. Sometimes, he told himself he deserved it. The rest of the time, he covered it up by strutting around and telling jokes. A smile was better than a miracle-healing, when it came to wounds of the soul. It was like a band-aid on the aftermath of open-heart surgery, but it was good enough for him, especially when he wasn’t good enough for more.

After all, what good would talking do? He’d already gotten it all sorted out in his head. He was good enough for a flat, good enough for expensive wine and expensive clothes and expensive sunglasses, but not good enough for a home, not good enough for Aziraphale’s love.

But, according to the angel himself, he was good enough to Aziraphale. 

When he brought Aziraphale to a restaurant that had unexpectedly bad service, or they went to a play that flubbed, there would be that dreadful drop in his stomach and the little voice would start up again, screaming that he needed to be _perfect,_ he had to be _flawless for Aziraphale_ , he couldn’t show any weakness, he was _terrible,_ it’s _curtains for you, serpent—_

And Aziraphale cooed at his plants, reassuring them, telling them that there was nothing to be afraid of. Leaves trembled and reached towards him like he was the sun, weeping dewdrops and petals like tears. _It’s okay,_ he told them. _You don’t need to be perfect. Crowley demands too much of you. It’s okay to show weakness. You’re beautiful. Everything will be okay._

That night, Crowley sat crumpled amongst his plants, his head bowed as if in prayer. His legs were crossed, but not in an elegant way. They were just crossed. His hands were not artfully placed so as to show off his long, thin fingers. They were just clasped in his lap. His hair was not tousled in such a way that implied hours at the hairdresser’s. It was a mess in such a way that implied hours of fitful tugging and running of fingers through it.

His plants were still. Normally, they shook like—well, like leaves. The fear of Crowley had been properly put into them. But Aziraphale’s soothing had done something. Something that had also been done to Crowley.

The plants were a metaphor, you see, although I hope that you’ve grasped that by this point. In Crowley’s quest for perfection, he’d started demanding it of those around him.

Even Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s flaws had become piercing, even if Crowley did not begrudge him for them. Instead, he’d taken them upon himself, even unconsciously. “You go too fast for me, Crowley” had turned into “You go too fast,” hard stop. Aziraphale’s flaw, a sluggishness when it came to change, had warped Crowley’s virtue of adaptability and deep, earnest love into the flaw of haste, in his head. So he’d twisted himself into knots, slamming on the metaphorical breaks. He’d changed himself.

Aziraphale was the sun, to Crowley. Like I said, the plants were a metaphor. He was good for Crowley, was warm and gave him life. But, like in all relationships, an imbalance can occur without anyone being at fault. Like in a family, a child can be sick with any sort of chronic illness, mental or physical, and their sibling will start to wither and turn bitter with the strain of it all. The parents are not at fault for being unable to provide every ounce of attention both of their children need. The sick child is not at fault for being sick. The bitter child is certainly not at fault for yearning to be the only one for their parents to love, even when envy turns to Envy and resentment festers in the dark places.

Imbalances can happen without it being anyone’s fault. And so, Aziraphale is not at fault for God’s weighted rubric, and Crowley should not be scolded for his dark thoughts. Perhaps it could be argued that here, God _is_ at fault. But that is the least of what She has to answer for, if you ask me, and we’re assuming She exists. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.

The point is not dolphins. Nor krakens, no matter how big their brains are. The point is, Crowley was currently sobbing on the floor surrounded by a physical manifestation of all his deeply-rooted* insecurities, all alone. 

_*hehehehehehehehehehe geddit they’re plants I’m a mcfreakin comedic genius**_

_**Did I mention humor as a way to cover up vulnerability? Case in point._

Aziraphale forgot his jacket at Crowley’s apartment. In a perfect world, he’d hurry back to fetch it real quick, _so sorry, dear, but—oh, Crowley! Come here. What’s the matter?_ And Crowley would spill everything, and they would hug, and Aziraphale would usher Crowley out the door so they could have some cocoa back at the bookshop, _your flat is so empty, so clean. Sometimes a little clutter is good for the immortal soul._

Because, of course, the flat is a metaphor as well. If the plants are the more abstract concept of perfection, then the flat itself is the concrete concept of Heaven. Uninterrupted planes of monochrome grey, white, and black (though you’d be hard-pressed to find anything black in Heaven) and minimalist decor. Crowley’s little piece of Heaven, and therefore God’s favor.

In a perfect world, Aziraphale would learn all this, in a tearful confession over steaming mugs piled high with marshmallows, proper large ones, not mini ones, which Crowley gleefully took credit for on good days but wrinkled his nose at on bad ones.

But a perfect world doesn’t exist, no more than a perfect human, angel, or demon does. No more than a perfect plant does. 

And isn’t that the point? It’s okay that today is not the day that Aziraphale learns what Crowley keeps so carefully hidden.

There’s always tomorrow, after all. They made sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how much of it came across in this, but I do talk enough like Aziraphale that my class giggles at me when I do presentations. So, honestly, I should have chucked my issues all over him, instead, especially given that I'm just more like him in several other ways as well. But you know what? The lifespans of red dwarf stars are theoretically trillions of years so. You know. May as well do whatever we like in the meantime, yeah?


End file.
